Z-Minus Box Set [Books 1-3]

by Perrin Briar

  “All I get from Baldy is how much he wants to cut me.”

  There was a pause.

  “Why are you with these people?” Chris said. “You seem bright, kind. Why are you wasting your time with them?”

  Paul smiled.

  “The world’s changed but the same old record is still broken,” he said. “My father used to say the same to me. ‘Stay away from them, or you’ll never amount to nothing.’ Maybe he was right, but they were there for me when the world ended, my brotherhood. The world might be gone, but we’re still here. And I might not be much, but we’re still alive.”

  Whomp-whomp-whomp-whomp-whomp.

  Paul turned to look up at the sky, ahead, behind. He couldn’t make out where the sound was coming from. But it was drawing closer, whatever it was.

  Baldy veered to one side, beneath the bough of a giant tree that stretched to its counterpart on the other side, fingers clasped and holding tight. The ground shook and the metal parts on the motorbikes rattled as a black underside flew overhead. It continued on for a while before turning left and following another road.

  “Looks like our ‘almost dead’ woman managed to pass on a few words to our friend in the sky,” Spiky said.

  “It might just be coincidence,” Paul said.

  “How many helicopters have we seen over the past eight weeks?”

  “None.”

  “And how many have we seen in the past hour?”

  “Three or four. But they might be the same one.”

  “They are the same one,” Spiky said. “They’re looking for something.”

  Paul eyed Chris and Maisie.

  “I don’t know what,” Spiky said, “and to be honest with you, I don’t care. But that’s a military aircraft and we don’t need them to interrupt us now.”

  “We could take it out,” Paul said.

  “Right now, we can’t. But when we get back we have all the tools and weapons we need.”

  “We’ll never get there with the helicopter following us.”

  “Then we’re going to have to take the scenic route, aren’t we?” Spiky said.

  Z-MINUS: 3 HOURS 27 MINUTES

  The roads spread out from the solid block of grey of Cambridge, an interlocking web of roadways like a spider web. Burned out vehicles and collapsed buildings lay like vanquished foes. The helicopter floated over it.

  “We’ve searched every main road from Brighton to Cambridge and seen no sign of them,” Phillips said.

  “Maybe they aren’t going to Cambridge,” Vasquez said. “People have been known to say nonsense on their deathbeds before, you know.”

  “In which case we don’t know where they’re headed and we’re back to square one,” Phillips said, shaking his head. “No, she knew what she was saying. They’re heading to Cambridge, but by what road?”

  “Why don’t we just keep an eye on Cambridge? That way we can find them and pick them up.”

  “For two reasons. One, we don’t know exactly where they’re heading to in Cambridge. There are thousands of places they could be going. We would probably miss them. Two, we need to find them as soon as possible. If we can pick them up on the way, the sooner we can get them to the Tomorrow, blow these zombies out of the water, and start again.”

  “But sir, we don’t even know if they even have the cure.”

  “Someone used that jet injector gun. We need to find out who. My money is on someone within that motorbike group. I don’t know who they are, but they have to come with us. They may be our only hope of salvation.”

  “So what do you want to do now? Search the roads again?”

  Phillips thought for a long moment.

  “No,” he said. “It’s no use going over all the same roads again. They must be sticking to the b-roads and country lanes.”

  “We’ll never be able to cover all these roads.”

  “So, we’re going to try to find someone on the ground to help us,” Phillips said, picking up the radio receiver and pressed the button on the side. “This is Squadron Leader Ryan Phillips of the Tomorrow research vessel, calling in any and all army units in the area, over.”

  There was no answer.

  “This is Squadron Leader Ryan Phillips of the Tomorrow research vessel,” he said, “calling in any and all army units in the area, over.”

  Again, no response.

  “I repeat, this is Squadron Leader Ryan Phillips of the Tomorrow research-”

  “Reading you, Squadron Leader,” a voice said, fuzzy with static.

  Phillips sat up in his seat.

  “Identify yourself,” he said.

  “I’m Lance Corporal Mathers with the infantry division.”

  “Where are you, soldier?” Phillips said.

  “I’m on a medicine run, sir. I’m based at Bassingbourn barracks.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Just returning from Cambridge, sir.”

  “You didn’t happen to see any motor bikers while you were there?”

  “There’s static on the line. I didn’t catch what you said. Any what, sir?”

  “Motorcyclists.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “No, sir. There are four of us here.”

  “I need you to do something for me.”

  “We’re under orders to get these medicine supplies back to the base as soon as possible, sir.”

  “I understand that, but this is bigger than anything you might now be working on. I’m from the Tomorrow research vessel. Have you heard of it?”

  “Yes, sir. Everyone’s heard of it. And of you.”

  “Do you have a lot of fuel left?”

  “We have just over half a tank remaining.”

  “Listen, I’m on an important mission. Perhaps the most important mission. We believe there is a cure and it is now in the open. We need you to investigate the country roads in your area. Can you do that?”

  “What are we looking for?”

  “A number of civilians on motorbikes. Big ones, possibly Harley Davidsons.”

  “Not too difficult to spot.”

  “No, they won’t be. Can you do that for me, son?”

  There was a long pause, no doubt while they were discussing it in their car.

  “I’m going to need an answer from you,” Phillips said.

  A short pause.

  “Yes, sir,” Mathers said. “I think we can help you. I’ll have to radio ahead and tell them we’ll be a little late.”

  “Radio me if you see anything.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Phillips hung up the radio receiver.

  “One car isn’t going to make much difference,” Vasquez said.

  “And yet it’s so much better than none, isn’t it? Let’s do our part as well, shall we? Let’s begin from the south east of the city.”

  The helicopter peeled out.

  Z-MINUS: 3 HOURS 15 MINUTES

  Maisie sat on the back of Kevin’s bike. He was a slow, gentle driver with none of the aggression of the other Reavers. Maisie was small and took up little space. Whenever her back touched his he gently pushed back, sensing her warmth. Spiky and Paul drove beside her.

  “How long before we’re there?” Paul said in a low voice.

  “Assuming we keep going at the same speed, taking the same long way round?” Spiky said. “An hour?”

  Paul nodded. He looked back.

  “The men are acting strange with the girl,” Paul said. “Did you see how the zombies reacted to her?”

  “Before?”

  “With the zombies. They... changed... when they saw her, when she got close to them.”

  “You’re imagining things.”

  “If I am, so are the others. Haven’t you noticed how they look at her now?”

  Spiky looked over his shoulder.

  “They seem normal to me,” he said.

  “Look at the way they cast glances at her when they think she isn’t looking at them. At all other times they
avoid looking at her. Looks to me like they haven’t decided what to think about her yet.”

  “What do you suggest we do?”

  “There’s nothing we can do. Just keep their attention away from her as much as possible.”

  There was a shout, and a terrified Baldy leapt off his bike before it came to a stop. The bike kept going for a few yards and then fell to one side, spilling Chris across the road.

  “Looks like we might be in luck,” Spiky said.

  Chris frothed at the mouth, dribbling over his lips and down his face. His eyes rolled into the back of his head. He kicked and screeched and fought against his bonds like he was being given electroshock therapy. The other motorbikes pulled over.

  “I knew he was going to turn! I knew it!” Baldy said.

  “Let’s take a ten minute break,” Spiky said.

  “What do you want us to do with him, boss?”

  Spiky considered the shaking figure on the ground.

  “Take care of him,” he said.

  Baldy smiled.

  “Finally,” he said, clapping his hands together and drawing his hunting knife.

  “No!” Maisie said, hopping off Kevin’s motorbike.

  She lost her footing and stumbled forward.

  “Take her to relieve herself,” Spiky said. Then he nodded to Chris. “And take him into the woods. Kill him there. We don’t need to leave a trail for the helicopter to follow.”

  Baldy grabbed Chris by the back of the neck and dragged him into the foliage.

  “We’ll give you a hand,” a couple of the other Reavers said, following him.

  “No!” Maisie said, struggling against Kevin’s embrace as he dragged her into the opposite hedgerow. “No! Don’t kill him! Please! No!”

  But he was gone.

  Z-MINUS: 3 HOURS 8 MINUTES

  Baldy threw Chris forward onto the ground. He pulled the sleeves up on his long leather jacket, exposing his flabby white arms.

  “Get his restraints,” Baldy said. “We’re going to have us a carving.”

  The two stooges exchanged giddy glances. The tall one put his knee into Chris’s back, pressing him into the undergrowth, and removed the restraints, the welts clear on his wrists. Chris’s body jerked like he was having a fit.

  “Well now,” Baldy said. “Is this how you pictured killing me? We’ve only got ten minutes, but I assume you, I’m going to own every one of them.”

  His long frizzy hair bounced around his face as he laughed, showing one sharp incisor, the other one chipped. He tossed his blade from one hand to the other. The other two stood behind him, eager for the show. He rushed at Chris, letting fly with his machete to sever Chris’s forearm.

  But Chris’s hand caught Baldy’s wrist and twisted it hard so there was a wrenching sound. Baldy let out a scream. Chris punched Baldy hard under the jaw, smashing his teeth together, slicing his tongue in half. The meaty chunk of muscle flopped to the ground, and blood poured out of his mouth. Chris seized the machete and pulled it around, severing Baldy’s giant head from his shoulders.

  The two men watched in stunned belief as Baldy’s body slumped to the ground. They turned to run. One slipped on the muddy soil. Chris threw the machete at the other man, the blade flying true and striking with a solid thunk, like a knife in a fresh wedge of cheese. He fell forward. His shoulders scrunched up, his face twisted in a caricature of pain.

  The other man had found his feet by now and rushed away. Chris fell forward and rugby tackled him to the ground. The man struggled, but Chris crawled onto his back and wrapped a muscular arm around the man’s throat. He had a spider web tattoo on his cheek that stretched as he fought. He struggled, fingers tearing at Chris’s grip. Chris drew his arm tighter, and the man stopped moving.

  The man with the blade in his back was reaching for the jutting blade now, his fingertips grazing the handle. He was on his knees, reaching back for it. Chris pushed the man, and he fell back onto the machete, driving it deeper into his body and out through the chest. The man felt at the tip of the blade, covered in his blood. His eyes rolled back and he fell silent.

  Chris stood up and staggered to one side. He braced himself on a tree, his head swimming, black spots dancing before his eyes. He pulled the machete from the dead man’s body. He was about to wipe it clean, and then thought better of it. He stripped Baldy’s body of his heavy leather coat and walked toward the road.

  He could hear the chatter of the Reavers down the road, voices muffled by distance. Chris turned and edged along the road in the opposite direction to the motor bikers by a few dozen yards. He paused a moment, took a deep breath, smoothed down the coat, pulled up the collar, and walked out onto the road. One of the men saw him and raised his hand.

  “Hey, Baldy!” he said. “I hope you gave him what for!”

  Chris raised the bloodied machete in the air, careful to keep the collar turned up to cover his head.

  “Woo!” the man shouted. “Looks like it was some mighty fine killin’!”

  Chris gestured toward the foliage with the machete and began to walk towards it. He heard the man say, “Baldy’s relieved himself, and now he’s about to relieve himself!”

  Chris entered the foliage, the waiting men’s voices reduced to a murmur, and then silence as he headed farther into the wood. He was careful where he placed his feet. He crept through the foliage like every step might be his last. Something snapped behind him. He turned.

  A Reaver with a blue quiff looked up from his squatting position under the eaves of a beech tree. He’d been preoccupied, a twig in one hand, drawing a picture in the dirt. He looked up when he saw Chris, face curled up with irritation, which gave way to confusion. It took a moment for him to recognise it was Chris and not a fellow Reaver. He opened his mouth to shout, but Chris was already moving forward, and rammed the machete at the man, aiming for his neck, but a sudden movement from the man caused the blade to slice through his lips, driven deep into the back of his throat.

  He made a single choking sound around the blade. There was a splash as his bowels let go and puddled beneath him. The man looked mildly relieved for a moment before his eyes rolled into the back of his head. Chris pulled the machete free, a spurt of blood dripping from the man’s mouth. He fell flat on his face and slid down the incline, his trousers around his ankles.

  “Come on now,” a soft voice said from slightly farther down the incline. “I’ve got my back turned. I’m not watching you. I can’t let you go off by yourself. It’s not safe.”

  Chris crept up behind the tree, the voices coming from the other side. The voice was soft, flowery and effeminate.

  “They killed him,” Maisie said.

  “They didn’t kill him,” Kevin said. “The virus killed him. He died for you, to protect you and keep you safe.”

  “Am I going to be safe without him?”

  Kevin hesitated.

  “No,” he said, “I don’t think you are. But you’re smart. You don’t have to let this be the end.”

  “He still had time left.”

  “He must have fallen asleep. It speeds up the process, they say.”

  “They’re never going to let me go, are they?”

  “No. Not until we get to Scorpio.”

  “And she’s never going to let me go either, is she?”

  “Probably not. If there was another way, believe me, I would do it. But there’s not.”

  “You could let me go.”

  “That takes a level of courage I don’t possess. Now, are you done?”

  Chris peered around the tree. Kevin and Maisie stood with their backs to him. Maisie looked so small and helpless, and yet there was that familiar glow of abundant life about her. Chris tapped Maisie on the shoulder. She jumped and made a squeak noise.

  “Daddy!” she said.

  Chris scooped Maisie up in his arms, holding her tight like she were the air in his lungs. He opened his eyes to find Kevin facing him. He gulped and looked off toward the road, but did not m
ake a sound. He eyed the blood-smeared blade and couldn’t take his eyes off it. He held up his hands and fell to his knees.

  “Please…” he said. “I swear I would let her go if it was my decision.”

  “It’s time to get going, boys!” a voice called from the road. “Hitch up your britches!”

  Chris considered Kevin, and then lowered the blade.

  “You were kind to her, so I’m going to let you live,” he said.

  “They’ll kill me if they know I let you go,” Kevin said.

  “Then make it clear you didn’t let us go.”

  “How?”

  Chris nodded to a rock.

  “Get creative,” he said, crossing the clearing and stepping into the foliage.

  Kevin picked up the rock. It was about the size of his hand. He felt its surface, looking for a smooth part without any sharp edges. He looked toward the road again, his mouth drawing down at the prospect of what he had to do to himself. He closed his eyes, crossed himself, and raised the rock above his head.

  Z-MINUS: 2 HOURS 57 MINUTES

  Chris pushed the foliage aside and led Maisie over the dry leaves and twigs, snapping under their feet.

  “If we can find a car we’ll be out of here,” Chris said.

  He checked his watch.

  “If we hurry we still have time.”

  He took a step forward and pain unlike anything he’d ever felt struck him, a hammer to every nerve in his body. He gasped and dropped to his knees. His thoughts became sporadic, leaping from one subject to the next, control slipping through his fingers. He could feel the virus in his mind, sweeping through and killing his memories. At a stroke he felt his childhood begin to disappear, failing to recognise family members, key events in early life, his first day at school, his first sports day...

  “No... My time isn’t up yet...” Chris said between gritted teeth. “Not now! I have to keep going!”

  He checked his watch.

  “I still have ninety minutes left!”

  “Maybe you fell asleep earlier,” Maisie said.

  Chris shook his head, knowing she was right, but refusing to believe it. He was swept along by the virus’s current, and he was just a man fighting against it, climbing the sheer-faced waterfall. He forced his lids open and peered at Maisie through squinted eyes. Maisie hadn’t moved, staring at him with wide eyes.